


Shampoo

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2 hour fiction, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Slash, Originally Posted on Tumblr, slash goggles Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is nothing that will make me more comfortable. I will be uncomfortable until I DIE of boredom in exactly 3 hours and 42 minutes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shampoo

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, no disrespect intended, no money made.

It was the pacing that nearly pushed Greg into picking a terribly ill-advised fight. Not the snark, though heaven knew Sherlock had bypassed snark and headed into waspishness two days ago. Not the insults about Greg’s ability to change bandages on hands that would not be still for five blessed minutes. Not the feline appetite, demanding Greg drop everything and go to the shops for a particular type of soup or biscuit, only to turn up his nose when it was finally placed before him. Not even the insistence that the people walking by outside were making too much noise, or that the refrigerator was humming ever so slightly off-pitch, or even that Mrs. Hudson must have her radio tuned between stations because Sherlock’s delicate hearing could make out the white noise from downstairs. No, it was the pacing. It was the long legs striding through the flat with a peculiarly aggressive grace, the bare feet slapping down on the wood floor or thudding rhythmically across the area rug, the pyjama pants swishing and dressing gown swirling about like a debutante’s skirts. It had been an arresting sight at first, endearing almost, but stopped being anything but irritating in short order.

Sherlock slapped and thudded and swished and swirled. 

Greg spoke calmly: “Sherlock.”

Thud-Thud-Thud, SWISH. 

Louder: “Sherlock.”

Slap-Slap-Slap, SWIRL.

Almost a shout: “SHERLOCK.”

“Oh, what IS it, Lestrade? Time to take another antibiotic? Eat some repulsive tomato bisque? Maybe you’d like to try tipping another cup of scalding hot tea down my throat?”

“Will any of those things make you sit down? Will any of them make you more comfortable?”

Icy eyes bored into Greg’s. Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed. He brought his hands up as though to ruffle and tug at his curls, but the heavy bandages only allowed him to rest his hands on his scalp. With a snarl, he resumed pacing. “There is nothing that will make me more comfortable. I will be uncomfortable until I DIE of boredom in exactly 3 hours and 42 minutes.”

“That long? Because I figured less than 2, really.” Especially if Greg took matters into his own hands and did the killing himself.

“You are not funny. Go away.” Flinging himself onto the sofa, Sherlock twisted his head back and forth into the corner, tangling his hair. His slightly greasy, unkempt, lank hair.

“Nope.” Greg watched the contortions as realization sparked through his brain. “Got an idea, though.” He stood up and dragged a tall chair over to the kitchen sink. “Take off that dressing gown and sit down here. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting to see if his command would be followed, he ducked into the bathroom for supplies. When he came back, Sherlock looked at the armful of gear quizzically. Greg waved a bottle of ridiculously overpriced shampoo at him. “This yours? And the matching conditioner, too? High maintenance, you.”

“It’s a complete system, and I have a sensitive scalp.”

“Ummm-hmmm. Smells nice, too.” Greg had popped the cap and was inhaling delicately. “All citrusy and woodsy. Sherlock Holmes, wood elf of London.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Huffing out a chuckle, Greg cushioned the edge of the sink with a folded up towel. “Good thing I’ve been around to keep things tidy. Lean back now, there.” Deftly he helped Sherlock get into a comfortable position, then turned on the water and tested it against his wrists. “Okay, tell me if this is too warm.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed as Greg wetted his curls with the sink sprayer, working his fingers through the twisted strands until everything was evenly soaked. The rigid lines of that long body were slowly relaxing, sinking toward a relaxed sprawl of limbs. Shutting off the water and frothing a puddle of shampoo between his palms, Greg pulled out the big guns. His fingers pushed slowly through the wet mass, from nape to forehead, then dragged back with a soft scrubbing motion. Back and forth his hands slid, working the tension out with his strong, blunt fingers. Sherlock’s face went from hard angles to softer lines, relaxing under his ministrations, and he switched to carding through the sudsy locks, distributing the lather and gently tugging the slippery strands. A green and brown fragrance, like wild things hidden in secret groves, rose beneath his lightly trembling hands. Sherlock sighed softly, and Lestrade recalled his self-appointed task, turning the water back on and rinsing the suds away. The conditioner was thicker, causing the strands to cling slightly as he slowly worked it through and rinsed it away. A heavy towel came next, tenderly squeezing and teasing until most of the water had been absorbed. Then Greg took Sherlock, silent and strangely pliant, by the elbow and guided him to sit in front of the couch where he carefully pulled a broad toothed comb through the damp silk, ordering and disordering and ordering once more, until the sable mass gleamed and fluttered in the evening light. 

“There now. Better?” He rested his palms against Sherlock’s shoulders, squeezing lightly. No trace of tension remained.

“Yes.” There was no more biting sarcasm, no acid frustration, tainting that voice now. “I...that was...Greg.”

Lestrade smiled, and answered what Sherlock hadn’t said, might never say aloud.

“You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> TheIvoryFool asked, on tumblr, for something with Greg washing Sherlock's hair.


End file.
